The climb out of the canyon bit into muscle and breath. Gravel skittered underfoot, rattling down sheer walls while fine dust—iron‑sharp on the tongue—hovered in drifting veils. Zuberi set the pace, spear angled like a walking staff, though every thrust of his legs protested after the day's brutal fights. Behind him came the soft rustle of Lisa's footsteps; she never quite stepped where he did, always angling a hand to test the stone first, as though feeling faint ripples of unseen danger.
Hanz trailed last, boots crunching, shoulders hunched. Since the ambush he had spoken barely a word; yet Zuberi felt his attention sweep every ledge, every dark fissure. Now and again Hanz's hand brushed the shadow‑weapon at his hip—no longer habit born of panic but something taut, deliberate, wary confidence.
Mid‑line, the boy rode the creature's broad back. In the oblique twilight the child looked impossibly small, swallowed by oversized clothing, dust streaking tear tracks on cheeks the color of sun‑toasted earth. Tight curls framed a brow etched with fatigue, and his pale green‑gray irises—haloed in brown—seemed to drink every tremor in the air. Each time the creature's clawed feet found purchase, its scales shimmered through slate‑blues and basalt‑brown, a slow, protective camouflage tempered by exhaustion.
They ascended a crumbling ramp of rock until the canyon floor fell away behind them, swallowed by purple gloom. The sky overhead retained a thin strip of bruised violet, enough light to silhouette jagged mesas far to the east. Wind threaded past, cool now, carrying a copper tang that reminded Zuberi of night fires on the savanna—soot, sweat, distant ashes of clan feasts.
He called a halt at a shallow shelf where the slope flattened in a spill of grit. Wiping dust from his brow, he lifted his waterskin; not a drop left. Hanz offered a silent shrug when Zuberi glanced back—his skin was bone‑dry as well. Lisa's was lighter but sloshed only once.
Below, faint carrion cries rode the air—scavengers testing the battlefield they'd left. Yet no silverback carcasses remained. The dust on the canyon floor already looked undisturbed, as though stone itself had closed over blood and claw‑marks.
"The land's invisible janitor hard at work," Hanz said at last, voice rasped by thirst. "Loot law still creepy."
Zuberi grunted agreement. He crouched to steady breathing, eyeing their company: five strangers melded by necessity. In one coup of fate they'd fought as a pack—now they had to stay one.
Lisa adjusted her sling bag, wincing when the strap grazed a bruise on her collarbone. Still she watched the shadows dancing at cliff edges. "It feels… thinner up here," she murmured, and Zuberi realized she meant the air, but perhaps also menace.
The boy slid from his guardian's back and landed with a soft grunt. He patted the creature's scaly neck; she chuffed, frills pulsing amber. It struck Zuberi again: he had never seen a child whose skin, hair, and eyes carried echoes of different peoples. On his savanna, tribes mingled on market days, but children still bore one line of features or the other. This merging felt wondrous—proof barriers he'd once thought rigid were softer here. He tucked that wonder away; marvel could wait.
He planted the spear butt in dust, raising his voice enough to gather attention. "We lived because we fought together. Here, names have power. They bind us; they remind us we are still people, not animals." He let silence hover so the wind itself seemed to lean in.
Lisa stepped forward first, dust streaking her cheekbones. "I'm Lisa," she said simply. The name rippled outward, as tangible as stone.
Hanz's shoulders twitched. "Hanz," he said, mouth crooking wryly—as though bracing for ridicule that never came.
Zuberi inclined his head. "I am Zuberi, son of Kito of the Mwangi plain," he said. The lineage spilled out before he could stop it, tasting of home.
The child swallowed, then lifted his chin. "I'm Eli," he whispered. He placed a palm on the mottled flank beside him. "And this is Shifty. She was… Shifty before I met her."
Hanz barked a short laugh. "Figures your lizard… cat… thing names itself," he said.
Eli colored, but Shifty simply blinked, pupils tightening to narrow diamonds. Colors flickered across her hide—dawn‑peach, ember‑gold, then back to stone‑gray.
"She shows me things," Eli said shyly, fingers worrying a torn cuff. "Pictures. Feelings. I just know what she means." He shrugged helplessly.
Lisa crouched, eyes kind. "Guidance comes in many shapes," she said. Zuberi nodded; in his homeland elders told of ancestors speaking through owls, wind gusts, termite mounds grown in arrow forms. Who was he to doubt a creature painting ideas into a boy's mind?
Hanz hefted his weapon, still eyeing its smoked muzzle. "No ammo. Just shadows," he said. "Point, think bang, thing drops." He shivered. "Still scares me worse than the beasts."
"Fear tempered is steel," Zuberi said. "Remember how it steadied your aim today."
Hanz pursed his lips, uncertain. "Maybe," he said.
The plateau above beckoned, a last scramble before night. Zuberi motioned them onward, but paused, catching Lisa's sharp inhale.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
She frowned at the slope. "Stone shifts left side," she said. "Loose scree if we step too near. We angle right, hug that ridge."
Zuberi accepted her instinct without question. "You lead here," he said quietly.
They resumed, Lisa forging a slight detour that spared them a slough of sliding shale. At one point she halted, staring toward a spur of rock. Hanz reached for the weapon, tension coiling. But nothing leapt. Zuberi smelled only cold air. They moved on.
The child's knees wobbled halfway to the crest; Shifty crouched to allow him a rest. Zuberi cut a length of spare cloth from his own tunic hem, wrapping the bruised joints. Eli murmured thanks, eyes bright but exhausted.
Higher, dusk thinned to velvet night. Stars pricked through, unfamiliar constellations that still made Zuberi's heart ache for home. At last the trail flattened onto a shelf of weather‑rounded basalt. A low overhang formed a windbreak, and beyond it a sparse cluster of woody shrubs signaled possible water below.
"Good sightlines, stone at our backs," Zuberi judged. "We sleep here."
Everyone sagged in quiet relief. Hanz peeled off his coat, flexing stiff shoulders. Lisa settled cross-legged, breathing deeply to reset her senses. Eli slid from Shifty's back; the creature nosed him gently, then prowled the perimeter, tail sweeping in watchful arcs.
Zuberi gathered fallen brush, striking sparks from his flint and spear tip. As flames licked upward, orange light painted dust motes in slow spirals. The warmth eased the chill that crept from stone each night.
Hanz sank near the fire, staring into shadow tongues. "Kid's dread bubble," he muttered, glancing at Eli, who sat close to Shifty. "When it hit me, everything else went quiet. Like cold water on a drunk's head. Kept me sharp."
Eli looked down, shy smile flickering. Zuberi lay a hand on his shoulder. "Your fear shields allies," he said. "That is power, not weakness."
Lisa handed the boy half a hard biscuit, nodding thanks when he offered a crumb to Shifty. The creature accepted delicately.
Night deepened. Hanz volunteered first watch with Shifty circling the perimeter. Zuberi arranged the firestones so glow reached outward but not high enough to signal predators. Lisa's eyes drooped; she tucked a rolled cloth under her head.
Zuberi sat back, letting fatigue seep through bone. He watched embers reflect in Eli's curious eyes. Saw again the mingled heritage, proof of distant places converging. In Doomhaven even bloodlines intertwined like roots seeking water in barren ground.
When Eli finally dozed, leaning against Shifty's warm side, Zuberi allowed himself a slow exhale. The wind carried names across dark stone—Lisa, Hanz, Zuberi, Eli, Shifty—etching them faintly into memory's ledger. In this land where beasts vanished and loot reappeared in dreams, perhaps spoken names were the truest things they possessed.
Tomorrow they would hunt water, map sky paths, face new horrors. Tonight, they had a fire and fragile trust.
Zuberi closed his eyes for one measured breath. The weight of spear against his thigh, the hush of wind, the steady pulse of five hearts—here in the alien night, these small certainties would have to be enough.